“DEAR GEORGE:  If politics do not keep you, we shall look for you this month.  There are colts to criticize and talk over, Leila is eager to see her unknown cousin before she goes to school near Baltimore this September.

“I believe this town will go for Buchanan, but I am not sure.  James and I, as you know, never talk politics.  I am distressed to believe as I do that he will vote for Fremont; that ‘the great, the appalling issue,’ as Mr. Buchanan says, ‘is union or disunion’ does not seem to affect him.  I read Forney’s paper, and James reads that wild abolition Tribune.  It is very dreadful, and I am without any one I can talk to.  My much loved rector is an extreme antislavery man.

“Yours always,
ANN PENHALLOW.

“I am not at all sure of you.  Be certain to let us know when to expect you.  You know you are—­well, I leave your social conscience to say what.

“Yours sincerely,
ANN PENHALLOW.”

At breakfast Ann Penhallow sat down to the coffee-urn distributing cheerful good-mornings.  The Squire murmured absently over his napkin, “May the Lord make us thankful for this and all the blessings of life.”  He occasionally varied his grace, and sometimes to Ann’s amazement.  Why should he ask to be made thankful, she reflected.  These occasional slips and variations on the simple phrase of gratitude she had come to recognize as signs of preoccupation, and now glanced at her husband, anxious always when he was concerned.  Then, as he turned to John, she understood that between his trained belief in the usefulness of inexorable discipline and an almost womanly tenderness of affection the heart had somehow won.  She knew him well and at times read with ease the signs of distress and annoyance or resolute decision.  Usually he was gay and merry at breakfast, chaffing the children and eating with the appetite of a man who was using and renewing his tissues in a wholesome way.  Now he was silent, absent, and ate little.  He was the victim of a combination of annoyances.  Had he been wise to commit himself to a reversal of his sentence?  Other and more important matters troubled him, but as usual where bothers come in battalions it is the lesser skirmishers who are felt for the moment.

“I see in the hall, Ann,” he said, “a letter for George Grey—­I will mail it.  When does he come?”

“I do not know.”

“John,” he said, “you will oblige me by riding to the mill and asking Dr. McGregor to come to Westways and see old Josiah.  Of course, he will charge it to me.”  The Squire was a little ashamed of this indirect confession of retreat.

John looked up, hesitated a moment, and said, “What horse, sir?”

“Dixy, of course.”

“Another cup, James,” said Mrs. Ann tranquilly amused.

John rose, went around the table to his uncle, and said in his finest manner, “I am greatly obliged, sir.”

“Oh, nonsense!  He’s rather fresh, take care.”